Today, I'm pleased to welcome S.C. Green to talk about her steampunk dark fantasy release, The Sunken.
*~*~*
I like to begin a book by discovering the
environment. It is only when I begin inserting characters into that environment
that the story itself begins to emerge. (After all, if you stick the same
character in a Vietnam POW camp and a spaceship stranded in space with only
enough air left for one of the two inhabitants, you're going to end up with two
very different stories). As an ex-archaeologist who has studied anthropology
extensively, I believe that human culture, social organisation and behaviour is
inherently linked to their environment. Change the environment and you
fundamentally change aspects of society, of culture, of technology, of belief.
In the world of the Engine Ward, I go back to Georgian England, a nation on the cusp of
the Industrial Revolution. But this is a world that has followed a different
timeline from the one you and I live in, starting all the way back in the
Cretaceous age.
What if dinosaurs have never become extinct?
How would sharing the earth with such creatures shape human history? That was
the first question I sought to answer when I started work on The Sunken.
I knew I wanted dinosaurs to be living in
Georgian England. How? Well, I figured that ice ages had probably killed off
many of the larger species, but that other, smaller species had either survived
or evolved. I researched the types of dinosaurs that had been living in England
when it was attached to a larger landmass, and the environments that those
creatures inhabited. I calculated that environments in England would have
evolved slightly differently – in the Engine
Ward series; most of the Southwest of England is an uninhabited swampland.
Humans would settle in specific areas they
could easily defend from predators, and build villages and settlements around
their farms and businesses. Some of these animals would be utilised for work, (in
later books in the series, you will meet "neckers" – long-necked
sauropods about the size of horses – pulling carts and farm equipment). Other
dinosaurs might be farmed or hunted for their meat, ivory or skin. Some, such
as the tricorn, had been hunted so extensively they are believed to be extinct.
Some, like the compies, were tiny and invaded food stores and chewed machinery.
And then there are the swamp dragons; highly dangerous carnivores that would need
to be avoided.
And, perhaps most important to my story,
human mythology would be drastically altered. Think of the different meanings
ancient tales take on when there really are
dragons living in the swamps outside your back door? I imagine people would
cling to these old stories and that, when science and engineering started to
offer a new view of the world – a view that humans could control and manipulate
and create it how they wanted – this would be extremely appealing. Science gives
humans agency in a world that had for centuries been controlled by monsters.
And so, the engineering sects were born –
religions focused around innovation and scientific method and the
resourcefulness of man. The sects have been part of the religious makeup of
England for some time – some are based on ancient cults (such as the cult of
Isis), while others are deities created as personifications of scientific
disciplines (like the Aether sect, which is primarily focused on chemistry).
But it isn't till King George III outlawed Christianity – the prevailing
religion of Europe – and adopted ten of the Industrian cults as the official
religions of England, that things get really
interesting.
And at the centre of the new religion is
the Engine Ward, a district in London dedicated to all the studies of
engineering and science. Here, the sects build great churches and shrines to
their gods, and here are the factories and laboratories where scientists and
engineers work on their creations. Here, too, are the great underground
furnaces that power the Ward, and the Stokers – the furnace workers – who keep
the fires constantly lit. It is in this district shrouded in coal dust that I
decided to drop my main characters, just to see what would happen next.
What did happen? Well, you can find out in
the Engine Ward series. Book one, The Sunken, is out now, and book two,
called The Gauge War, will be out
early next year. You can sign up to my
mailing list to be one of the first to get a copy, or just keep an eye out
on my blog.
*~*~*
Title: The Sunken
Author:Steff
Green
Genre:Steampunk
Dark Fantasy
In the heart of London lies the Engine Ward, a district
forged in coal and steam, where the great Engineering Sects vie for ultimate
control of the country. For many, the Ward is a forbidding, desolate place, but
for Nicholas Thorne, the Ward is a refuge. He has returned to London under a
cloud of shadow to work for his childhood friend, the engineer Isambard Kingdom
Brunel.
Deep in the Ward's bowels, Nicholas can finally escape his strange affliction – the thoughts of animals that crowd his head. But seeing Brunel interact with his mechanical creations, Nicholas is increasingly concerned that his friend may be succumbing to the allure of his growing power. That power isn't easily cast aside, and the people of London need Brunel to protect the streets from the prehistoric monsters that roam the city.
King George III has approved Brunel's ambitious plan to erect a Wall that would shut out the swamp dragons and protect the city. But in secret, the King cultivates an army of Sunken: men twisted into flesh-eating monsters by a thirst for blood and lead. Only Nicholas and Brunel suspect that something is wrong, that the Wall might play into a more sinister purpose--to keep the people of London trapped inside.
Excerpt:
James Holman's Memoirs —
Unpublished
The
history books — the thick sort written by real historians — will tell
you England's troubles began when Isambard Kingdom Brunel knocked Robert
Stephenson from the post of Messiah of the Sect of the Great Conductor, and
became overnight the most powerful engineer in England. But they do not have
the full story.
The true origin began many years before
that, with George III — the Vampire King — and the damage wrought by his naval
defeats, and his madness. His depravity might have been held in check were it
not for a mild spring afternoon in 1830, when a dragon wandered into Kensington
Gardens and ate two women and a Grenadier Guard.
I
happened to witness this occurrence, although witness, my critics would say, is
a word I am not permitted to use, on account of my complete blindness. I had
been granted a day's leave from my duties at Windsor Castle to come into the
city. In my left hand, I clutched two envelopes. One contained a thick,
pleading letter to my publisher, written on my Noctograph in large, loopy
letters to arouse their sympathies, humbly requesting a payment for royalties
due on my book. The second contained a request for a period of extended leave
to travel to Europe, addressed to the Duke and signed by my doctor. In my other
hand, I held the brass ball atop my walking stick, rapping the pavement and
listening for the echoes whenever I felt myself veer from my path.
I
arrived at the offices of F., C., and J. Rivington, my publishers, a little
after four, and was surprised to find their offices empty, the door locked, and
no one about. I ran my fingers over the door, but could find no notice. Perhaps
they had taken an extended luncheon? I sniffed the air, remembering the
delicious pie shop on the corner beneath the barbershop. Yes, perhaps I should
look for them there.
I had
no sooner taken a step across the street, my mouth watering with the
anticipation of pie, when coach bells jangled, whistles blew, hooves thundered,
and a great commotion rumbled down the street — a carriage speeding over the
cobbles, the inhabitants crying out as they were flung back in their seats. I
yanked my boot back just as the carriage screamed past and several Bobbies blew
their whistles at me. Boots pounded along the street as the usual gaggle of
reporters, thrill-seekers, and layabouts chased after the carriage, anxious to
see the cause of the commotion.
Of
course, being somewhat of a thrill-seeker myself, I shoved the letters into my
jacket pocket and followed. I didn't need my stick to follow the sound of the
carriage, and I fell in step amongst the crowd and allowed the jostles of the
nosy to pull me along. I collected details in my mental map — a right turn
here, a left there, the rough cobbles giving way to silken lawn and neat, paved
paths. We'd entered Kensington Gardens, tearing through the squared hedges of
close-cropped yew and prim holly, cut and shaped to mimic the bastions and
fortifications of war. Hydrangea and rose perfumes drifted on the breeze, until
the coo of songbirds was interrupted by piercing screams as women scuttled
between the hedges, looking for a place to hide.
Then, I
heard the roar.
The
sound was so low it shook my insides about, so my organs felt as though they
had sunk into my socks. The crowd around me, only moments ago hell-bent on
moving forward in search of the commotion, scattered in fear, diving into the
trees flanking the Round Pond and leaving me in the centre of the path to
confront the scene before me.
Though
I could only hear and not see what unfolded, the vivid accounts read aloud to
me by friends from the papers allow me to picture it now as clearly as
anything. A female swamp-dragon (Megalosaurusbucklandii, in the new
taxonomy) appeared from nowhere beside the Round Pond, obviously in need of a
drink. She bent down, fifteen feet of her, to lap at the water with her thick
tongue, her leathery green skin catching the midday sun. The gentlemen who had
been preparing to launch their boats on the water scattered, but their women
were busy setting up the picnic tables and laying out the tea settings, and did
not notice the commotion until the beast was upon them.
A woman
cowered under her table, clutching a crying baby and trying to muffle its sobs
beneath her skirt. But the dragon — like me — saw the world with her ears. She
drove her wide snout under the table and tore at the unfortunate woman, tearing
out her pretty arms and staining her dress with blood.
Crème scones and Wedgewood china
flew through the air as the beast charged the picnic tables, snapping up
morsels of womanly flesh. The screams brought more bystanders — lovers
strolling along the Serpentine, the Royal Horticultural Society, who'd been
admiring the hydrangea beds, and, finally, a nearby guard on duty with his
shiny blunderbuss.
The
shots rang in my ears for several moments, and I leaned on my stick, suddenly
blinded to the world around me. The ground trembled as feet thundered past, and
I turned to move after them, but a voice broke through my panic.
"You sir, don't move!"
I froze. Now I heard the hiss of
air escaping the dragon's nostril, and the click of its claws as it stalked
across the garden path toward me. The air grew hot, carrying with it the smell
of butchery — blood and flesh mingled with the beast's fetid breath. At any
moment it would be upon me. The panic rose in my throat, and I fought the urge
to run.
Author Bio
Steff
lives in an off-grid house on a slice of rural paradise near Auckland, New
Zealand, with her cantankerous drummer husband, their two cats, and their
medieval sword collection. The first CD she ever brought was Metallica's 'Ride
the Lightning', and she's been a card-carrying member of the black-t-shirt
brigade ever since.
Steff writes about metal
music, her books, living off-grid, and her adventures with home-brewing on her
blog www.steffmetal.com. She
writes humorous fantasy under the name Steff Metal, and dark, dystopian fantasy
under S. C. Green. Her latest novel, The Sunken, explores an alternative
Georgian London where dinosaurs still survive.
Stay
up to date with Steff's books by signing up to her newsletter at http://steffmetal.com/subscribe, or
like her Facebook page at http://facebook.com/steffmetal.
*~*~*
0 comments:
Post a Comment